


i feel the fire; come on let’s fan it

by tremontaine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff, Multi, OT3, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah I’ve noticed,” said Bucky. “So our girl likes a show.” He smiled, that slow, sexy curl of his mouth that had had half the girls in Brooklyn falling for him seventy years ago and still would today if he ever turned it on anyone but Steve and Tasha. “We’ll give her one some time, what do you think?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i feel the fire; come on let’s fan it

**Author's Note:**

> There is no actual d/s sex in this fic but Natasha does think about subbing, sometime, possibly, and brings it up with Bucky and Steve.

Natasha could never tell when they were up to something. She liked to think she could, but the truth was that this – this whole relationship thing was so unaccustomed, so completely new, that no rules she had would fit it, no guess or assumption ever confirmed itself. Sometimes she thought about this fact for a little too long – usually when on a mission, or if they hadn’t seen each other in a few days – and got cold feet, came close to convincing herself that the whole thing was foolish, reckless, and frankly unnecessary.

Then she would see one or both of them again and remember all at once that it was the smartest, safest thing she’d ever done, as necessary as the breath in her lungs.

But she still couldn’t tell when they were up to something. Take now, making out with James on the couch, all slow and lazy like neither of them really cared if they ever moved on to the sex or not, drowsy with quiet pleasure. He was flat on his back; she was tucked between his side and the back of the couch, one thigh slid between his, his arm heavy around her own back. Her hair would be a hopeless mess when she sat up. Sometimes the noises she made into his mouth were just flat-out embarrassing, little gasps and moans for more. Enthusiastic tuition and promise of rewards had made Steve very good at kissing, but practice, as they said, made perfect, and you could always tell that James had set himself to acquiring this particular skillset with drive and dedication long before Steve had so much as laid eyes on Peggy Carter.

(Occasionally Natasha would think about Peggy Carter and feel sort of bad about… everything. Here she was, alive and young and healthy, slowly but surely building a life with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, while Carter had buried them, mourned them, lived her life without them, and died – peacefully, and surrounded by her family, but dead was dead to Natasha’s way of thinking. Meanwhile, Natasha got everything: Steve’s partnership, his jokes and snark and comfort, his fears and foibles, his – well, let’s not beat around the bush: his virginity – his kisses, his cooking, his favourite books, his Thanksgiving traditions, his hopes, his friendship, his love; all the things, in short, that he would have given Peggy if he’d had the chance. Natasha never felt like second best, but she did sometimes feel like she was… cheating.)

Speaking of Steve, the background noises of him clattering about in the kitchen ended; she heard, with the tenth of her concentration that was always on the job, even now, him moving into the living room, bringing a waft of apple pie with him.

“Apple pie,” said James, grinning against her mouth. Natasha snickered too.

“Laugh it up,” said Steve, balancing on the couch by James’ knees. There wasn’t much room. “We all know who’s gonna eat it.” He touched Natasha’s calf, the back of her knee; most of that thigh was snug against James’ crotch, and Steve traced idle patterns across it that made her shiver. “I was thinking,” he added, positively asking for an outpouring of fond derision:

“Oh were you, Captain America –“

“I didn’t know you ever did that –“

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw him pinch James’ hip. “Perhaps Sergeant Barnes would care to recall yesterday’s campaign planning.”

James’ arm tightened around her as he laughed. “Sergeant Barnes has not quit thinking about it all day. Sergeant Barnes would also like to point out that he’s not the one who’s been in the kitchen all afternoon.”

“Oh god,” Natasha said. “What’s this about?” She didn’t know what she was expecting – barbecue parties or a vacation or a repeat of that hellish weekend they had agreed to help Sam babysit his nephews – but their sudden warm silence gave her a hint. So did Steve’s hand on her thigh again, James pushing himself up on his elbow.

She frowned at them. Coupled with the mess of her hair and a mouth she was sure was distinctly kiss-swollen, she doubted it had much effect. “Am I being ganged up on?”

“Sort of,” said James. “We thought you’d like it.”

“A present!” She glared. There was a warm, trembly, hollow feeling in her stomach and chest: anticipation edged with growing desire. Steve’s hand was playing with her hair now; he loved her hair. It was – strange – disquieting – to let them do this. That was, everything they did together was amazing, but it made things – it made her – everything was – it was different, that was all. It was – different. Being planned for was different. Having someone say, _let’s do this I think you’ll like it_. Different. To Natasha, even that much – acquiescence to a simple suggestion – was a giving up, a loss of control.

Sometimes she thought about doing it properly: not with all the theatrical props and stuff, but just sort of saying, _do what you want with me_ ; ropes maybe, and a safeword. Then panic would jump into her throat and strangle her from the inside out, and she would shove the idea away, except for the warmth the thought left in her limbs, the tingle of curiosity.

So she was fucked up, sue her. Her boyfriends didn’t seem to care.

“Thought you might like watching us,” said Steve.

… oh. Natasha chewed on her bottom lip. It was a bad habit, but it was better than chewing her nails, and it made them both watch her mouth intently.

“Tell me more,” she said at length, and licked her lips when James laughed softly, when Steve’s eyes darkened.

“Very straightforward,” said James. “You sit down someplace nice and comfortable and watch us fuck.”

“I,” said Steve, fingers drawing interlocking circles on her side and back, “am gonna bottom, so we’re clear.”

“You fight over that?”

“A little,” said Steve, grinning. There was a faint flush gathering in his cheekbones, and he was pinching and twisting his mouth in that way she loved.

“Am I dressed?”

Surprised pause. “If you want to be,” said James. They never did work out the exact logistics in advance. That was always up to her. Men. Natasha sat up, twisting about till she was on top of James’ hips, facing Steve. He caught hold of the nape of her neck and leaned in for a kiss, brush of lips slow and gentle; he tasted like apples and pie dough. Then she took it deeper, felt him shiver when she bit his lower lip, opened her mouth for his tongue to touch hers, his fingers pressing on her neck with sudden strength. That always rocked her, that moment when he would forget she wasn’t like them. James’ hands were on her waist.

“Upstairs?” he said. “Or here?”

Here, in the front room, right in front of the bay windows where any passer-by on the street below might see: no. She shook her head. “Upstairs.”

“OK then.” Steve kissed her again, deep and fierce; bore her back down onto James’ chest, re-arranging her leg across his lap, then pushing up, rubbing through the hairs on her thighs teasingly slow, she was so so glad she’d worn a skirt today, really she was, then Steve’s fingers pressing in the crease where her thighs met her torso, hot through the thin cloth of her knickers. Natasha groaned pleasurably, pushing up against him, left foot rubbing against James’ lower leg. James’ hands between her legs, cool left on her thigh, warm right a tease, cupping her gently, barest suggestion of friction.

“Upstairs,” James murmured in her ear. “Ey? Steve? Upstairs.” Upstairs was leagues away, an unmeasurable distance. Natasha flexed her hands on Steve’s ass, ground her hips down against James’, sucked on Steve’s tongue and shivered when he groaned. So, so good to be trapped between them like this, held, surrounded, all that focus and talent and intelligence directed at _her_. “Oh I know darlin’, you don’t care right now” – not if he kept doing that with his fingers she wouldn’t, no – “you’d lie here sweet and wet and open and let us get you off, but, sweetheart,” and she felt him grin against her jaw, “you wouldn’t respect us in the morning.”

The joke broke her mood, just enough. Natasha laughed against Steve’s mouth. “I was promised dinner and a show,” she agreed. “The neighbours don’t get either.”

“No they do not,” Steve muttered, sharp. “Nobody gets the two of you but me.” Possessive, it had to be said, was a good look on Steve: both completely sexy and deeply comforting. (The same could not be said for James: possessive, on him, reminded Natasha inexplicably of the Soldier. Steve agreed with her.) He sat up, paused there for a minute to look at them, smiling, then stood up and pulled Natasha after him. She went gladly, fit just right against him, and they both stumbled, laughing, when James gave them a shove towards the stairs. Steve’s hand shot out and dragged James with them so they all nearly fell; somehow they made it across the room, staggering like idiots, trading kisses, tripped and scrambled up the stairs, paying more attention to each other than the steps. Natasha’s bra was hanging open under her shirt and she didn’t even know who’d done it.

“This is – come on, we’re superheroes.” She was in stitches. James had Steve pressed up against the bannister and was kissing him like he meant to fuck him there and then, and Steve was bending back for it like the heroine of a Hollywood flick, melting sweet and pliant into James’ body, except for the arm round Natasha’s waist that held her close to them. She fumbled for the next step with her right foot and dragged at them both, breathless with laughter, and yelled when the kiss broke and they both went for her at once; mid-step back, she went down, dragging Steve with her, they were saved by James, hauling them up by their arms; Steve’s fair skin was bruising with marks that would be gone in another hour. Natasha, just as pale, would have to wear sleeves tomorrow, probably. The thought made everything inside her clench up tight with desire.

Steadied again against the bannister, Steve was laughing his ass off; Natasha would too, but she was busy kissing James, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He kissed her like he couldn’t bear to let her out of his arms, the way he’d kissed Steve just now, deep and wanting; she was pressed so close she could feel his cock hard against her body. Here: push him against the wall, go on her knees, put her mouth on him till he begged for it – another day. Dinner and a show. She shivered.

Steve’s laughter had died down. Suddenly he said quietly, “Sometimes I still don’t _quite_ believe it.”

It: a thousand thousand things, the future, the serum, Natasha loving him back, James loving him back, James being alive at all. She pulled back, tugged gently on James’ lower lip with her teeth, said, “I believe it.”

“There a knack?” Steve was smiling, she could hear it in his voice.

“Well,” said Natasha. “I have a lot more sex than before, you know? If someone’s messing with my head they’ve got a very dirty mind.”

And the warmth of Steve’s body solid at her back. James put his head on her shoulder and laughed and laughed; Natasha smiled against his temple, sighed when Steve’s hands tangled in her skirt and drew it up, caressing her thighs again. He was laughing too.

“I love you,” he said in her ear, and kissed the shell of it, ran his lips along the curve lightly lightly, oh god that felt good, down to the lobe and back up, he knew what that did to her. Natasha swallowed hard, fingers clenched on James’ waist. James kissed her jaw, her bared neck, her breastbone. “Upstairs,” he said against her skin. “Christ, so beautiful.”

Upstairs. Less hilarity, more touching, stumble through the bedroom door; soon as it shut Natasha was pressed up against it, her top tangled in her bra for a moment and of course it was up to her to extricate herself because they were both licking her tits, the world went hazy under their mouths, the cream-coloured cloth she was dragging over her head. Hands pulled her knickers down, one warm, one metal-cold, and another pushed between her ass and the door and caught the zipper of her skirt. There were advantages to being ganged up on. She dropped her top and bra – James was shirtless already – Steve was kissing her hips, her stomach – she widened her stance and braced her hands on his shoulders – James said, “You wanna come first?”

First – oh god. She’d nearly forgotten. Natasha licked her lips. On the one hand: fun to find out how long she could stand to watch without – no, that wasn’t fun. That was kind of stupid. This was not some sort of competition. “Yes,” she said, breathless, shivering; she was moving her hips, she realised, in slow little circles as if dancing. Come now, watch them without being the least little bit distracted by her own body; yes. “Yes.” Steve looked up at her, eyes as blue and endless as the summer sky. She cupped his face in her hands for a moment. “Get up here and fuck me.”

“If you’re sure.” Tease, tease, tease. All that boy ever did. When he stood he caught her thighs in his hands and lifted her easily, her legs settling over his hips; James, beside them, suckling bruises into Natasha’s thigh and dragging Steve’s jeans down, his underwear.

“The two of you,” he said hoarsely. Natasha gasped as Steve’s cock brushed her cunt, as his hands settled on her ass and her shoulders pressed against the door. “Don’t break the door.” Steve laughed, biting his lip, wild-eyed with want. Natasha got an embarrassing thrill out of being the only woman in the world to have seen his face like this.

She squirmed, pushed down against him, her fingers were digging into his arms, let her head fall back against the door: invitation to kiss her throat, the underside of her chin, and he took it, clever boy. Her face was burning, her breath coming short and shaky, every bone in her body ached for him, she reached down to guide him, fingers bumping against James’, oh god that was hot, and then – she cried out – Steve moaned – opened her eyes wide to stare unseeing past Steve’s shoulder, looking at the window seat, the sunlight and the blue sky outside through the gap in the sheer curtains, the smooth wood of the door ran caressing against her back and shoulders with every thrust. She was so full. She crossed her ankles to make her legs keep still; it tightened them around Steve’s waist, and he made a noise that – harder. More. Don’t stop, don’t ever stop.

James, beside them, standing now, naked, for the first time Natasha realised Steve was still wearing his t-shirt, not that it mattered, not that anything mattered, flash of James’ hand in her vision as he cupped Steve’s head, every movement was jarring her bones beautifully, every second of this was bliss. Steve leaned forwards and his mouth caught on hers; you couldn’t call it a kiss, they were breathing too hard, moving too much, James’ voice like sin made audible, what was he even saying, “… see how much she likes it, so good for us, perfect, perfect, gonna hold you down take you apart the exact same way, make sure Tasha sees everything I do to you, every little move, every noise you make, just for her, every second.” He kissed Steve’s jaw, Natasha’s. She flung her hand out, gasping, caught his shoulder, his neck. “Get this off.” Natasha fell to enthusiastically, hands trembling, bunching Steve’s t-shirt under his arms, watching as James’ fingers teased his nipples. “God I love you.” That made her shake, cry out.

“Steve –“

Steve wouldn’t let go of her to get that damned shirt off. “Love,” he said; the only endearment he ever used, but boy was it effective. “God Nat you’re so tight, so hot – open up for me so sweet, could do this all day, stay inside you forever, Nat, Nat,” his fingers were digging perfectly into her ass, his thumbs in the crease of her thighs, her breasts tight against his chest, their skin wet with sweat, sliding together easily, she couldn’t breathe for how much she – tightened her hand on James’ shoulder and put the other between her legs, circled Steve’s cock with her fingers, he made a noise that was almost enough to make her come, he always liked that, god she was soaking, rubbed at her clit with her wet fingers and –

Yeah.

Had she shouted after all? Probably not. Oh, oh, the aftershocks were almost the best part, everything so relaxed and lovely, pleasure drawn out in increments as Steve’s thrusts grew erratic; then, finally, “Tash – _Tasha_ ,” he was always so quiet, almost as quiet as she, and she held his head against her shoulder and sighed contentedly as he shook against her.

Silence. James was breathing hard. They all were. Natasha uncrossed her ankles, let her legs hang limp; Steve could take her weight, even now. She dropped her head against the door again. They hadn’t broken it.

“Don’t go to sleep,” James said lowly, and the shudder that took Steve was divine.

“No,” he rasped against Natasha’s shoulder.

“Oh.” Natasha sighed. “Gonna enjoy this. Tempted to say we should film it.” She grinned.

“That’d be like a challenge to the universe itself for HYDRA to break in and steal it,” said James.

“Well that put a damper on everybody’s mood,” said Steve, laughing.

“Mmm.” Natasha rolled her hips luxuriously. “Don’t think so. You’re getting hard again.”

“ _Christ_ ,” said James.

“Kind of smug about the multiple-orgasms-side-effect, I admit,” said Steve. He rocked up into her lazily, and she groaned; only half-pleasurably. “Too much?”

“Little.” His hands tightened on her ass again, lifting her off him gently, and James’ arm snaked round her back; good thing too, her legs were jelly. She closed her eyes and raised her face for kisses, given lavishly, sighed bone-deep content when they kissed each other, James’ eyes half-closed, smiling against Steve’s mouth. Natasha stepped aside, slid out from between their bodies and the door. Where? The window-seat? Too far from the bed. The chair in the corner by the window, usually piled with clothes. Perfect. There was a chill and cheerful breeze on her skin, pleasantly cooling, and her thighs were sticky with Steve’s come. She dragged the chair in front of the chest of drawers, between the bed and the window-seat, grabbed her bathtowel off the radiator and threw it over the cushions.

There. Natasha sat down, feeling self-conscious – throned naked on a bathtowel, honestly. Sex was – sometimes, sex was really _silly_. She stretched, a little, tucked her feet up underneath herself, knees folded in front of her chest. She crossed her arms on them and – for the first time, it felt like – looked at her boyfriends. Also an uncommonly silly word. Lovers? Kind of Romeo and Juliet. Partners? Clint was her partner. Why was she thinking about this when they were right in front of her, kissing slow and deep, Steve was still wearing his t-shirt, for god’s sake. Natasha swallowed a laugh. James had noticed; he urged Steve’s arms up over his head and broke the kiss to wrestle the tangled green fabric off, laughing.

“There.”

“Thank you.” For an instant Steve had that old pinched smile he’d used to get when he wasn’t sure if he was even capable of laughing; then it stretched into something more honest, and he caught James’ face in his hands and kissed him again. Natasha sighed. The seconds ticked by; a bird sang in the back yard and a kid shouted on the street, the old house creaked and settled, and the low wet noise of Steve and James kissing filled up the room. James was making that sound in the back of his throat, that little growl that always got her hot.

She shifted a bit, smiling. Heat was curling back into her limbs; her cunt felt warm and swollen and empty. In the warm dimmed sunlight from behind the curtains James’ scars – redly angry at his left shoulder, white and raised elsewhere on his body – stood out in sharp contrast to his skin, the faint tan he’d set himself to acquiring this summer. Steve tanned too, and even worse than that: he freckled. It was adorable. They dusted his nose and cheeks and forehead and shoulders and back _and_ chest, down to his fine chest hair. Summer sunshine had brought out bronze highlights in James’ hair and turned Steve’s so blond it was nearly white.

When they moved to the bed it felt like an afterthought, James pulling gently, Steve following, needing no coaxing. James’ back was to Natasha; she had a perfect view of Steve’s hands to either side of his spine, the way James arched towards him under the caress, the pause in the hollow above the curve of his ass, then slide further down to cup his ass, the same massaging flex of his fingers that he’d used on Natasha earlier, then his fingers in James’ crack slow and teasing – James let his head fall back, breath of laughter escaped him.

“Later.”

“Yeahhhhh.” Steve drew it out, satisfied and longing. He bent his head to James’ neck, kissed and nipped and raised a hickey, then another. James sighed.

“What are you thinking about?” Natasha asked suddenly. Steve looked up, eyes catching hers. A shiver went through James, as if he’d forgotten she was there and the reminder made him hot.

“Me?” he said, voice sex-rough and amused. “Baseball scores.” Steve dropped his forehead onto his shoulder, snorting. Natasha was startled into a cackle. “Or this ain’t gonna go anywhere.”

“Take you about as long as me to get it up again,” said Steve in a muffled voice. “Which is to say, not very.”

“Want to come inside you,” James said wickedly. “Have you all tight and hot around me, fill you up” – Steve groaned – “yeah. Thought you’d like that better.”

“You’re unbearable when you’re smug,” Natasha told him.

“Got a lot of things to be smug about.” James caught Steve by the hips, turned them both, pushed him down onto the bed. “Almost makes up for living in a world with cell phones.” Steve propped himself on his elbows, laughing with Natasha; his legs were spread obscenely, cock jutting up, and there was a very pretty flush in his cheeks, spilling down to his chest. James put his hands on Steve’s knees and looked over at Natasha, warm and loving. “You OK over there?”

She swallowed, shifted in her seat, felt her hips move without her own volition, licked her lips. “Yeah.” There was a bottle of water on top of the chest of drawers; she leaned over for it, took a drink to wet her throat. “I’m fine.”

“OK,” said James. Then he went to his knees and swallowed Steve down, shocking a moan out of him, most of his head hidden to Natasha’s sight by Steve’s thigh; the pretty flush deepened, the strong body arched off the mattress a little way. Natasha splashed cool water on her thighs, scrubbed the stickiness off with the bathtowel, the cold and the rough cloth on her sensitised skin bringing her out of her head – not by much – she couldn’t take her eyes off Steve’s face, the way his mouth hung open, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks as his eyes closed.

“Buck, Buck, Buck,” he chanted lowly, twisting his hips. “God almighty. Bucky.” Natasha could go over there now, swing her leg over his shoulders; he would eat her out till she couldn’t breathe – hold his head and shoulders in her lap and kiss him quiet – play with his nipples, almost as sensitive as her own, which James’ were decidedly not. She stayed put, chewing at her bottom lip again, hands twisting tight around the water bottle. James’ hands were splayed across Steve’s abdomen. When he pulled off he turned his head towards Natasha, eyes meeting hers, kissed the thigh in front of his nose, said hoarsely, “I can taste you on him.”

Natasha made a noise you’d expect out of a wounded animal, low and helpless; her only comfort was that Steve did too. James stood up, smirking, and Steve reached for him with a frustrated hiss, but he dodged and went round the side of the bed to rummage through the bedside table and get out the lube. The curve of his back bent over the drawer was divine, light glimmering on his left arm. Steve hauled himself up the bed a ways, heels pushing at the mattress; he was breathing hard and his hips were twitching, reddened cock wet with James’ saliva. Mouth open obscenely, he watched James come back to him, climb on the bed between his legs, kneeling over him, and their eyes met; suddenly James laughed.

“Sometimes I don’t believe it either,” he said.

“Neither of us would ever have believed _this_ ,” said Steve, lust dissolving momentarily into laughter, gesturing between them.

James smiled. “No.” They loved each other so much. Sometimes Natasha thought she could see it, like a physical bond. It had made her afraid, back before they had come together: afraid of being left on the outside, even more afraid of feeling something so all-consuming herself. Now, whenever she saw it, it was beauty. Steve was reaching out – James tangled their fingers together and let his body fall forwards so they could kiss. Steve sighed, that noise he made whenever he was so happy he was prepared to stay put, just like this, for hours on end; it made Natasha think of rainy mornings in bed with coffee and a pile of books, and sunbathing in the yard, and long afternoons in that very bed, talking about nothing, James hard inside her for taffy-slow hours; sometimes Steve would sketch them like that… she shifted again, groaned, rubbed her own hands over her thighs.

As if she’d prompted him James sat up, reached for a pillow to slide under Steve’s hips. Steve followed him up onto his elbows again, watching avidly as James knelt over him, poured lube over his fingers.

“OK?” he said.

“For god’s sake,” said Steve, half-furious, half-desperate. “Will you fuck me already.”

“I like seeing you desperate,” James informed him loftily. “All twisted up with wanting it.” His wet hand dropped between Steve’s legs; Natasha couldn’t see what he was doing, but she could see how it affected Steve, the long sigh, the bite of lip, the tip of his head back, exposing his throat. She was breathing a little bit quick. “It makes up for a lot of the grief you put me through.”

Steve laughed helplessly, dropping flat to the mattress and splaying his hands in the sheets; his hips twisted down on James’ fingers and his breath was coming short. “More. More, c’mon. Love your hands, ah, there, yes. God you feel – feel so good in me.”

“Gonna feel better in a minute,” James promised breathlessly. Natasha tore her eyes away from Steve to look at him: flushed face set in concentration, swallowing hard, eyes half-closed, as if he couldn’t bear to look straight at Steve, left hand on Steve’s hip holding him, caressing.

“Promises, promises,” Steve said. “Oh, _oh_. Buck, come on, I’m ready – just – please –“

Natasha took another sip of water, pressed the cool plastic against her hot thighs; she was rubbing her legs together, trying, _trying_ to keep still. “You know, Steve,” she said, and this time they both shivered when they heard her voice, “you’re delightfully mouthy when you’re on the bottom.”

“That’s because it’s very frustrating,” said Steve. He turned his head on the mattress to look at her, and – James had a PhD in being evil – wet hand holding Steve’s knee up, thigh open, James pushed inside him – Steve shuddered all over, ecstatic, eyes fixed on her face, and Natasha gasped, her chest tight.

“Say again?” James was shuddering himself, fiercely controlled. Jesus, that _look_ on his face, the tense strength in his shoulders and thighs, the things he was doing to his mouth, worrying at his lips in an effort to keep still.

“Very frustrating,” Steve repeated brokenly. “Oh my god.” He clenched his hands in the sheets over and over, reached out, uncoordinated, to catch hold of James’ hips.

“Yeah,” Natasha said. “I just hope that feels as good as it looks…”

“You know how good it feels,” said James, pulled out and pushed back in, a long sinuous roll of his hips – he wouldn’t keep that grace up for long – Steve moaned for it, wanton – “You know. Have him lie here and take it like you’re all he wants in the world, just beg for it, just –“

“Yeah. Yeah, god, I do. Think you’re any different?”

James laughed, harsh and stuttering. He spread his knees a little wider, found a rhythm, hard and fast, jarring high, sharp sounds of delight out of Steve with every thrust. Natasha could see his cock bobbing against his stomach, dripping pre-come. “No. Not a little. For you, for both of you.” God the sounds they were making were just – “Gonna fuck me after? Get the strap-on out, open me up –“

“You gonna lie there all fucked out on top of Steve while I do it?” The idea had not-insignificant appeal. Natasha dropped the water bottle at last in favour of pushing her hands between her legs; for a moment she left them on the inside of her thighs, put off touching her cunt for a delicious few seconds; then she slid down in the chair and opened her legs and sank two fingers inside herself, she was soaking, and to her cool fingers her vagina felt burning hot. Steve was still making those noises, and every time James pulled out he’d turn his head to look at her, back to James on every thrust in, as if surprised by it, it was stunning. “No. Next time. Want your mouth. Can’t look at your mouth without wanting it…”

“Yeah.” James shuddered, slowed down for a few strokes that made Steve moan: “No, no, _harder_ ,” sped up again, hard and fast, just about punishing, little noises escaping him nearly in time with Steve’s. “Oh you feel good, so fucking perfect, just take everything, don’t know how the fuck I go more’n hour or two without seein’ this, without being in you – either of you” – he turned his head sharp to Natasha, quickest flicker of a glance as if he’d lose it if he looked at her fucking herself on her own fingers because of them for too long – “you know how much I love those jeans you wear, love seeing your legs in them, think about peeling them off you and fucking you on every flat surface you walk past – get you up against the wall and rub you through ‘em till you come for me –“

Natasha was just about shaking. Steve had had all the words fucked out of him, apparently, moaning for it ceaselessly, every time James opened his mouth another shudder went through him, it was glorious, it was beautiful, it was not going to last much longer and neither was she, everything inside her was coiled up tight as a guitar string, and Steve was no better, she knew what he looked like seconds away from coming.

James said, “Go on sweetheart – gonna –“ and Steve unclenched his fingers from James’ hips and wrapped a hand around his cock and swallowed once, twice, Adam’s apple bobbing, before he managed to rasp out, “Come inside me, you promised,” challenging, and, see, that took skill, near-simultaneously, Steve’s hand stripping his own cock, James’ hips jerking, they each came, shaking, Steve groaning unintelligibly, James as silent as Natasha herself.

Silence, except Natasha’s own heartbeat in her ears, the noise of them breathing harsh and quick. James had fallen forwards against Steve’s chest, face turned towards her, eyes closed. Steve’s hands were stroking him blindly, back and shoulders and into his hair, wetly black at the nape of his neck with sweat. Natasha thought Steve’s eyelashes were wet. Oh this was awful, this was agony. She was rolling her hips up helplessly against her own hand, fingers inside herself to the knuckle, but the trouble was, she didn’t want to get herself off; she’d been alone over here all this time and now she wanted hands on her, skin and strength and body heat.

Steve turned his head towards her, slow and smiling. “Get over here.” His voice was a mess. Natasha took her fingers out of herself, sat up – she was trembling, this was ridiculous – James pushed himself up, kissed Steve: once, twice, warm, loving things, and Steve groaned again as James moved out of him; then at last Natasha was on the bed with them and oh Christ dear god yes, hands on her skin, laying her down in body-warmed, sweat-damp sheets, oh that was delicious, just lie here and take her turn, yes, blanketed by both of them, held and touched and held down, she was kissing Steve, clutching at his bicep, at James’ shoulder as he pushed her thighs apart: curled a finger inside her and licked at her clit once, twice, three – four – and Natasha came, shaking, the world splintered apart.

Steve was kissing her face, her wet eyelids and cheeks. James was kissing her labia, brush of his fingertip over her clit sparking warm, shivery aftershocks.

“Hey. You OK?” Steve, smiling at her.

Natasha sighed. “Too far away.”

“Pretty intense, though.” James knew what she meant. He generally did.

“Still too far away.” She stretched, arching her torso up from the mattress towards Steve’s body leaning over her, her calves and feet, toes _en pointe_ at James’ back. “I like touching you.”

James kissed her navel; then the Odessa scar. That made her shiver. It was sort of like – if you got fucked up about it – it was sort of like his mark on her, a brand: _mine_.

_Really_ fucked up. Then again, she was the kind of girl who had these perennial, panic-inducing fantasies about being tied up and ordered about by her kind, loving, respectful boyfriends, neither of whom – when in their right minds – would ever dream of telling her what to do, let alone harming her. Given her past, given their past, that was pretty fucked up.

“What’s going on in there?” James moved out from between her legs, crawled up her body to kiss her mouth; Steve was lying against her other side, his hand spread on her chest beneath her tits.

“Nothing much,” Natasha lied. Then, because she had sworn two things to herself when she had started this relationship and lying was breaking one of those oaths, she admitted, “Well, I – sometimes sort of wonder –“

“About what?” James propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her curiously.

Steve kissed the curve of her shoulder. “Most effective ways to shut you up during sex?”

Natasha laughed. “Never that.”

“Hah.” James was smug.

Steve grinned. “Fine, whatever.”

“I thought maybe sometime you could tie me up,” Natasha blurted. Then, because she was kind of an idiot, she shook. “I mean – I don’t know what I mean.” She was staring determinedly at the ceiling. “I. Think about it? Sometimes. But it scares me shitless.”

“Hmm.” Steve, his breath warm against her shoulder, her upper arm. “Me too. I mean, think about being – tied up.”

Oh. Natasha licked her lips thoughtfully. “Well, at least it’s not just me.” That sounded oddly bitter. She snuggled against him, and they both looked at James at the same time.

He looked pensive. “Yeah, don’t try that on me. Sorry.”

“Wasn’t asking to,” Steve said quietly. “If anything, was asking you to do it to me.”

James huffed a laugh. “Yeah.” Then he looked at Natasha, puzzled but not – thankfully – judgemental. “Why, though?”

She shrugged. “Because it – because the idea is that you, know, that I – that I don’t – decide. And as I say it scares me shitless but it’s also – if it was _you_ – to just sort of…”

“To just be,” said Steve.

“Yes. Like now – watching you – not – not having to _do_ anything.”

“Oh.” James chewed his lip. “I – I get that, I guess.”

“Not right now, and not tomorrow, and not next week or month –” Natasha said. “I don’t know – but I think about it. You know?”

Steve said, “I’ll go first then,” and she laughed.

“Uh-huh.”

“Sometime.”

“Do not ask me to – to slap either of you around in any way,” said James quietly.

“Not _that_ ,” Natasha said at once. Pain was right out. It was about control, not about being hurt. “Or humiliation or – no. Just – just giving orders.”

“To the two of you?” said James, and suddenly started to laugh, because he was a total asshole.

Natasha’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, shut up.”

“He’s got sort of a point,” Steve murmured.

“Give you orders!” James whooped. “Oh my god. That is – that is glorious.” He fell onto his back, cackling, and Natasha sat up and pushed him off the bed.

“Ass,” she said, “I’m baring my soul over here,” and started laughing herself.

“Give you orders,” said James again, convulsing with laughter on the floor. “Give you _orders_.”

Natasha looked at Steve, who was biting his lower lip and grinning. “Wanna leave him there and get apple pie?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s shower first, though.”

“You’re on.” He pulled her in for a kiss, cupping her face gently, and Natasha melted into it a little ways, sighing.

“Should _really_ have filmed it.”

“Repeat performance on demand,” Steve said.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll film,” said James. “We’ll film me giving you orders and being _ignored_ ,” and he was off again, helplessly.

“Why do we keep him?” Natasha wanted to know. “He doesn’t even _cook_.”

“Habit,” said Steve. “Bad habit.”

“ _Old_ habit,” said Natasha. “Ninety years old. Notoriously hard to break.”

“Are you ever gonna give those jokes up?” He pulled a face at her.

She thought about it. “Probably not.”

“Give you orders,” said James. “Oh my god. I love you _so much_.”

Natasha pressed her fingers to her mouth, grinning tightly at Steve. “Yeah, really.”

Steve pursed his lips. “He hasn’t said he won’t,” he pointed out.

“… that’s true.”

“Darlin’,” said James. She wouldn’t look at him but the mattress dipped when he got back on the bed, and then he was kissing her shoulder, the nape of her neck, right hand playing with her hair. “The list of things I’m _not_ prepared to do for you is very, very short.” Suddenly Steve looked earnest and solemn and loving.

Natasha swallowed. Then she said, “I know that.” James rested his face against her shoulder; she felt his nose against her shoulder blade, his breath hot on her skin. She touched Steve’s face with her fingertips, suddenly remembering the first time she had ever seen it – the first time she had seen either of their faces, some old black-and-white photograph reprinted in a glossy-paged history book, and the monotonous voice of her instructor saying something about HYDRA and American war heroes. Ten years later, that old photograph long forgotten, the man they called the Winter Soldier had put his hands on her hips, surprised and grateful, and kissed her back with unsuspected skill. Eight years after that, Coulson had led a dead war hero down the ramp of a Quinjet to meet her…

“I lied,” she said. “I don’t really believe it either. It’s too good.”

Steve shook his head, smiling, but he didn’t speak. Natasha didn’t need him to. Shower, and apple pie, and maybe they’d go out tonight, find something fun to do; maybe they’d stay home and fight over the TV remote. But just now - just now she could sit like this for another few hours, she thought, watching the light on Steve’s face, feeling James warm at her back, without needing to do anything or say a single word.

 

 

 


End file.
